


A Fair Test

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Experiments, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, John has anger issues, M/M, Poverty, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2040165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every experiment has its variable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fair Test

The summer after his parents died, John beat another boy senseless. He didn’t feel it, the way his knuckles hurt from connecting with the boy’s jaw or how his eyes burned with unshed tears. Later he couldn’t even explain why he had done it, save to say that he had been so angry that he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t like the boy had said anything that John hadn’t heard before, but that day he just couldn’t bear one more joke about his scuffed up shoes or the hole in his secondhand jeans. The anger had filled him up. Sometimes he imagined the rage as a snake, curled around his stomach, squeezing and biting his insides with its fangs until he was filled with nothing but poison.

His foster parents didn’t care about his reasons. He woke the next day to find all of his things shoved into the plastic bag he had come with and another stern adult waiting to take him away. He hadn’t cried then, nor when he was taken to the boys’ home. It wouldn’t do to show weakness, especially not here with so many other boys who had snakes peering out of their eyes, too. He bundled up the hurt, the loneliness, and swallowed it, imagined the snake devouring it in one sickening gulp. He couldn’t afford to mess up again. Next time it wouldn’t be a home he ended up at.

He pretended that the rest of the summer would be easy. He had just turned fifteen. He could last one more year, finish up school, and then he would be truly on his own. He didn’t know what he would do then, but it wouldn’t be curling up on a small cot in the corner of a room he shared with four other boys. He had to save every last coin he made and he hid them in a sock under his thin mattress. When he wasn’t doing chores around the home, he did odd jobs. Those were few and far between, and not because there wasn’t work to do. There just wasn’t work for someone like him. He tried to ignore the looks people gave him, but he knew that there was a giant mark on him that said ‘damaged.’ No one wanted one of the boys from the home mowing their lawn or pulling their weeds. They were all thieves, hadn’t you heard? And violent. Sometimes John wondered if people put a little trust in them then maybe things would be different. Mostly he just tried to keep his head down and shrug off the constant background shame that came with being poor and unwanted.

To make a little extra money, he collected aluminum cans, shoved handfuls of them into plastic bags and hoped that each one would add just a little bit more to his nest egg. He buried his disgust and dug through bins to find any cans that people had carelessly thrown away.

Another boy found him just like that: John up to his elbows in someone else’s rubbish, small plastic bags of cans sitting stuffed next to his feet.

“What are you doing?”

John froze. That wasn’t the first time he had been caught, but he hoped that it wouldn’t be like last time. They had called the police on him and he had only barely managed to get away before they arrived. He had lost four bags that day. But it wasn’t an angry faced adult staring at him. It was a boy, eyes scrunched up in careful study of his actions. John licked his lips and slowly stood to his full height. His fingers twitched in anticipation. If he needed to run, he refused to leave the cans behind this time. 

“Collecting cans.”

“Obviously. Why?” The boy’s accent was far too nice to be from this neighborhood. Come to think of it, so were his clothes. Everything about him screamed doting parents and a public school education.

“For the money?”

The boy hummed in interest and leaned over the bin for a look. “I wouldn’t bother with Scarberry’s bins. Unlikely for them to have anything you could actually use. He’s a dentist. Doesn’t believe in sugar. Might I recommend three houses down? Family full of absolutely terrible children. Probably ripe for the picking.”

John flushed and ducked his head. It was bad enough being caught picking through garbage, worse still to have someone critique his technique. He nodded and picked up his bags. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Think I am done for the day.”

“Do you come this way often?”

John paused at the mouth of the alley. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I am interested in decomposition and I think we could use this to both of our advantages.”

John shook his head. The kid was absolutely bonkers. Who wanted to poke rotting things if they didn’t have to? And who the hell dressed like that while doing it?

“I could serve as a lookout as well and any cans I find until the next time we meet, I will set aside for you.”

“I don’t need your charity,” John hissed. There was little left that what was still his, but damned if he would let some posh kid try to take his pride as well. He could do all of this on his own. He could.

“Dull. I’ll meet you back here on Friday. Ten o’clock should do it. Fewer people around to see what we are up to. Most of them will be at work by then.” He was gone before John could tell him he wasn’t interested.

Later that night, John thumped his pillow in frustration. He wasn’t going to meet him, that arrogant git. It was stupid. He didn’t even know the kid’s name and it wasn’t like he needed an extra set of hands to do this anyway. Would just get in the way. Probably would get him caught and with those skinny legs, no way he could outrun an angry neighbor.

Though it would be nice to have someone else to talk to, even if he was an oddball.

 

* * *

 

Even as he cursed himself, he showed up exactly when the boy told him to, half expecting to be stood up or jumped. But no, there he was: well-pressed shorts and clean dress shirt and turned up nose like he was trying to pretend like he hadn’t been eagerly waiting for John. He thrust a bag of cans into John’s hands as soon as he saw him.

“Okay, first things first, if I am going to be taking this from you, we need to figure out what I am doing in exchange. And a name wouldn’t hurt.”

“Sherlock. And you are digging through rubbish for me. I think that is a fair exchange of goods.” Sherlock (and god, what a name) drew out a set of bright yellow rubberized gloves and pulled them on. They dwarfed his skinny arms, making him look all the more ridiculous. “Well, go on then. Don’t mind me.”

John shook his head and started picking through the bin, setting aside cans and other bits of metal scrap that he thought he could get a little money for. Ever so often, Sherlock hummed or murmured next to him and occasionally scribbled something down in a small notebook. John couldn’t figure out what exactly Sherlock was hoping to find, but at least it was another set of eyes and someone to talk to for a little while.  

“Is there a reason you can’t just look in your own trash?” John tucked his nose up against his shoulder as a particularly nasty smell hit his nose.

“Mummy threw a fit when I tried. Said it was unsanitary. Besides, I needed a wider sample.”

He grimaced at the filth on his hands and spared a longing look for the gloves Sherlock wore. “Why didn’t I think of getting some of those?”

Sherlock paused only briefly in his inspection of a mildewy slice of watermelon. “Because you are an idiot.”

John bit the inside of his cheek. “Thanks.”

“It’s alright. Everyone is.”

“But not you?”

Sherlock looked up at him and slowly blinked as if John had asked the dumbest question in the world. “Of course not me.”

“Right.” John sighed. “Think I’m done for the day. Why are you wanting to poke in trash anyway?”

“It’s for an experiment.” Sherlock shut his notebook and removed his gloves. A small smile of satisfaction flitted across his face. “Same time next week?”

 

* * *

 

John soon found out that everything Sherlock did was for an experiment. His summer quickly became filled with sneaking around, spying, climbing trees, and generally getting into as much trouble as possible but always somehow managing to wiggle out of it. Sherlock was absolutely mad and didn’t seem to be afraid of anything. In between those moments of absolute madness, John actually realized he was having fun. It was strange to think that Sherlock was capable of making everything more exciting, but it was true. Even the mundane things became a little bit more manageable.

Anytime John actually found a job, Sherlock would moan dramatically, proclaiming that John’s time was being wasted and that there were more important things to do. It did not, however, stop him from tagging along. It was...comforting. John hadn’t had a friend in a while, though he wasn’t entirely sure if that was what he and Sherlock were. He couldn’t deny that he looked forward to seeing Sherlock, even when he was being a giant prat.

John wiped the sweat from his forehead and sat back on his heels. Mrs. Lancaster’s garden had seen better days. Ever since the stroke, she couldn’t tend it like she used to, and her husband insisted that he had a black thumb. John wasn’t particularly sure he had a green thumb, but he at least knew how to pull weeds and dig holes. Anything else Mrs. Lancaster was sure to direct with a sharp word. Sherlock eyed the pile of weeds with a gleam that John had come to learn meant that Sherlock had an idea. He just hoped it didn’t involve fire this time.

“Ya know, you could help a bit.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and rubbed a dandelion back and forth between his fingers. “I am helping.”

“Oh yes, big help you are. Sitting in the shade.”

“And pointing out weeds you’ve missed.” Sherlock smiled.

John mirrored his grin. He didn’t actually mind having Sherlock sitting nearby, ever present notebook in hand. This was John’s job. The fact that Sherlock tagged along to watch made it go a little bit faster. “Afraid you’ll get a sunburn?”

“I freckle. Absolutely terrible and Mummy loves them to death. I’d like to avoid having my cheeks pinched.”

John licked his lips. “Freckles? Yeah, that’s a fate you definitely need to avoid.” He hid his widening grin by ducking down and concentrating on a stubborn weed.

Mrs. Lancaster limped over to inspect her flowers, her cane digging into the newly dug earth. She gave a wobbly nod in approval. “Think that’s enough, young man. You’ll come back Thursday and start on the other side, of course.”

“Yes, ma’am.” John stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. He didn’t mind the work, but it always left him wishing for a bath as soon as possible. “Need me to do the watering?”

“No, no. Reggie can handle that just fine.” She waved him over as she slowly made her way back to the patio. “Now, what did we agree on?” She fumbled with her purse, fishing out some money.

John bit his lip. He never felt right taking money from her. She reminded him a bit too much of his gran, though he had only known her through pictures and the occasional story. Plus he knew that they could use the money; he had seen the way the house needed a new coat of paint and how the eaves were beginning to sag. He opened his mouth to protest only to shut it with a snap when she fixed him with a stern glare.

“I believe hard work deserves payment, young man, and you will take this money.” She pressed the crumpled note into his hand and held it there until John nodded and closed his hand around it.

Sherlock tugged on his arm and John stuttered out a thanks and a promise to be back later as they headed out the back gate. The money felt heavy in his pocket. Maybe when he came back on Thursday he could slip it back into her purse? No, he wouldn’t want to risk being accused of stealing.

“You don’t like taking her money.” Sherlock ducked in front of him and walked backwards so he could study John.

“No.” John hated when he did this. It was fine when he tried to figure out other people, but he didn’t like Sherlock staring at him like he’s a puzzle just waiting to be solved.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s a nice lady and I don’t like taking things from her.” John kept his eyes firmly on the ground.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. That’s not it. You don’t like taking her money because she’s poor.”

John’s shoulders crawled up toward his ears. “Yeah, well, she could use the money.”

“So could you.”

John flinched. “Not as badly as she does.”

“Patently untrue. She obviously has more money than you do. What’s the point of doing these jobs if you turn down the money at the end of them?”

“Because sometimes it feels good to do things for other people.” Why couldn’t Sherlock ever drop things? He pushed and pushed and didn’t care one wit who he hurt when he did it. John kicked a rock in frustration.

Sherlock suddenly stopped and John barely kept from running into him. Against his better judgement, John looked up at him. Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed, as if he had drawn a particular conclusion. He hummed under his breath. “What’s it like being poor?”

John clenched his fists. “Fuck you.”

“I’m only curious.”

“Why? So you can play at being poor for a bit? Gonna put on some wrinkled clothes and round out your accent? It’s not another one of your goddamn experiments.”

“It would be useful to know.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Useful?” John shoved him up against a wall, not caring at the hurt that flashed across Sherlock’s face when his head impacted. Poison pounded in John’s veins. He pressed his arm against Sherlock’s throat. “You wanna know what it’s like? It’s eating the same shitty vegetables in a can every day. It’s wearing the same pair of ratty trainers until you are having to tape them to keep them in one piece. It’s being ten years old and worrying yourself sick about where the fuck you are going to live because your Dad just lost another job. It’s having your parents die on you and everything getting worse when you didn’t think that was even possible.” Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, his fingernails digging crescent marks in John’s arm. John shook him off. He couldn’t breathe.

Sherlock sagged against the wall. “John, I--”

“Just go home to your Mummy, yeah? I’m done.” John swiped at his eyes, refusing to show the angry tears that had collected there. He marched, spine a steel rod and his stomach on fire, and refused to look back.

* * *

He didn’t go out for a few days. Instead, he lingered like a ghost in the hallways of the home, darting away from the other boys. Mr. Carter, the man in charge of the home, hated idleness and quickly enlisted him in cleaning the toilets, dusting the windowsills, and sweeping the floors. When he finished one thing, he asked for another chore, not daring to pause in between activities or else he would think of the bruise he’d probably left on Sherlock’s throat. 

Sherlock deserved it, didn’t he? He deserved to be screamed at, to be told he was clueless. John’s life wasn’t a game. It wasn’t something he could just take off at the end of the day like a costume. It didn’t matter if Sherlock had just been trying to understand what John’s life was like. John wasn’t a test subject to observe.

His stomach clenched at the thought. Was that what all of this had been about? Had he just thought John was something to observe and record data on? He could just imagine Sherlock running home at the end of the day to scribble more notes in his notebook. Sherlock dissected and picked at everything. Was there a page titled Test Subject: John Watson in that notebook? Surely not even Sherlock would be that cruel.

But the thought persisted. He worried it back and forth, persistent as a dog with a bone, as he made his way on yet another errand to the local grocer’s. Every day he had spent with Sherlock was reexamined. He looked for something to show him that Sherlock actually had wanted to be his friend. There had been that day, just after they had met, when Sherlock had convinced him to jump a neighbor’s fence to steal a few flowers for Sherlock to study. Neither one of them had known that the neighbor had just adopted an extremely territorial Rottweiler. One adrenaline fueled dash later and John started to laugh in between gasps. It was contagious and soon Sherlock was laughing along with him. Sherlock had looked surprised that John was laughing, like he couldn’t believe that they were having fun together. That mixture of shyness and pleasant surprise couldn’t be faked.

“Jesus, you’re a psycho! Bet you killed that cat.”

The voice brought John up short. Just up ahead, he saw Sherlock knelt over a small ball of fur. His hand was curled protectively around the thing’s head. Two burly boys stood over him, one of them quickly growing red in the face.

“You listening to me? I called you a psycho.”

“Yes, I heard you. I chose to ignore you because you are an idiot.” Sherlock bent down to examine the cat, leaving his back entirely unprotected from the two boys.

Grocery list forgotten, John began to run. Even as he neared Sherlock, the red faced boy grabbed Sherlock by the arm and twisted. A pain-filled gasp slipped past Sherlock’s lips, only to be silenced when the other boy hit him hard across the face. John plowed into the boy holding Sherlock, sending all three of them to the ground in a tangle of flying fists and kicking feet. John tasted blood as someone’s elbow connected with his jaw. He lashed out, driving his fist into the boy’s stomach again and again. The other boy looped an arm around John’s neck and pulled back, only to let go with a yelp as Sherlock clawed at his face. After that, John was too preoccupied with keeping his own face from getting bashed in. He didn’t believe in fighting fair. He bit and punched, pulled hair and kicked.

“Get this freak off of me!” The boy Sherlock was fighting broke free and darted down the street. John hauled his opponent to his feet and shoved him off in the same direction, a well-placed boot to his arse sending the boy on his way.

The urge to howl in triumph surged up John’s throat. He spat out a bit of blood and dragged his tongue across his teeth. No lasting damage there, though his cheek smarted something awful. A grin fought to take over his face, only to drop when he turned towards Sherlock and saw that he was cradling his arm.

“Shit, is it broken?” He reached out to touch, but Sherlock tucked his arm closer to his chest. “Okay, um, do you live far? Don’t worry. We’ll get you sorted.” John moved forward slowly, hands steady, and herded Sherlock down the street. Sherlock, however, had other plans.

“The cat.” He swallowed and firmly pressed his lips together. There was a distinct green tinge to his skin and sweat along his hairline.

“Bit more worried about you right now. Plus I think it’s beyond our help.”

“No. Just hurt.” Sherlock moved to pick it up.

“Wait, wait. Jesus. Okay.” John tugged his shirt off, leaving him in just his vest. Last thing they needed was for one of them to get bitten by an angry cat. He slid a hand under the cat’s chest, freezing momentarily when it growled. He was going to get rabies because of Sherlock. Wouldn’t that be a fun experiment? Quick as he could, he wrapped it in his shirt. It kept up its low-level growl, but didn’t struggle as he picked it up. “Fine. I’ve got it. Now can we go?”

It took them far longer than John would have liked to get to Sherlock’s house. By the time they arrived, Sherlock had gone from green to white and looked like he was ready to sit down and never get back up. Luckily John was saved from dragging Sherlock into the house. The front door opened just as they reached the porch. Suddenly it was a whirlwind of activity: Sherlock’s mother clucking her tongue in worry; Sherlock’s father racing to find the keys; everyone being shuffled into their car.

It wasn’t until he was sitting in the waiting room after Sherlock had been taken back to be examined, that John realized he was still holding an angry cat and that he had completely forgotten about the errand he was supposed to be running. He drummed his leg up and down and stared out the window.

“That’s quite the bruise you have,” Sherlock’s father said. “Suppose you got it doing whatever landed Sherlock with a broken wrist.”

John shifted in his chair. How would Sherlock’s parents take to hearing about Sherlock getting into a fight? They had to know what sort of mischief their son got into on a regular basis. No parent who obviously spoiled and doted on Sherlock like that would be completely unaware of where he was on any given day. “It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.” Sherlock’s father smiled. “Suppose it was over the cat then? He does love his strays.” He placed a gentle hand on John’s shoulder. It was odd talking to Sherlock’s father. John could tell that Sherlock took after his father in his looks; the eyes were different and Sherlock’s hair was darker, but there was no denying that they were father and son. But where Sherlock was careful with his smiles, as if they had to be guarded and only shared rarely, his father smiled openly. “C’mon, let’s get you home and I’ll see to this new addition to the Holmes’ household.”

* * *

 

It took him a full week to check on Sherlock. After returning back to the home with a bruised face, torn jeans, and no groceries to speak of, Mr. Carter put him on lockdown: no leaving, extra chores, in bed by nine every evening. He couldn’t even sneak off to use the phone. The only consolation was that at least that was all of his punishment. Fear had sat ugly in his chest at the thought of being shipped somewhere else, being actually locked up. It helped that the boys he had fought with apparently hadn’t uttered a peep about the fight. They were probably too afraid of looking the fool for getting their arses half-kicked by Sherlock. Still, for the next week and the days following, John walked on eggshells, certain that one more slip-up would mean the loss of any freedom he had. 

When he finally earned his freedom again, he double-timed it to Sherlock’s house. He had expected his house to be ostentatious, something that smacked of the upper crust, but it wasn’t. It was nice, sure, but it didn’t sprawl or have thirty bedrooms and more servants than actual people living there. The Holmes’ household looked more cottage than manor and, though John still felt a little uncomfortable because it was unexpected and so different from what he was used to, he wasn’t constantly afraid that he might break some priceless vase.

“John!” Sherlock’s mother opened the door wider. “Oh, thank goodness. We were so worried about you. Sherlock has been pacing the entire house, up and down the stairs at all hours of the night. Of course, we told him he couldn’t go running all over the place with his arm in a cast, but you know how he is. He was just certain that you had been shipped off to Siberia of all places. He tried to take the car as soon as we got home from hospital. Can you imagine him trying to drive with that awful cast on?”

Sherlock’s mother was a bit of a whirlwind, John discovered. She talked with barely a pause, all the while escorting him through the house and offering him a sandwich because she thought he looked peckish. John liked her immensely. It was easy to see where Sherlock’s excitement came from, though it manifested a bit differently. Sherlock didn’t have the same generalized need to talk, but ask him about something he loved, and he never stopped talking.

John dutifully ate the sandwich she sat down in front of him. It wouldn’t do to refuse food, especially since he didn’t know if he would be making it back to the home in time for dinner. A thump came from the stairwell and John snapped his head up. Sherlock stood on the bottom step, mouth open in surprise. The bit of sandwich in John’s mouth suddenly felt enormous and impossible to swallow. They hadn’t exchanged many words in the past few weeks-- John didn’t count the few sentences after the fight because they were mostly spoken in quick bursts of worry and pain-- and he found himself unable to find a single word to say. He grabbed his glass of water and chugged it, forcing the lump of bread down his throat. It gave him a few seconds to mull over what he wanted to say to Sherlock, but still nothing came to him. He was relieved to see him, which he supposed was good enough.

Sherlock’s mother smiled and patted John on the arm. “I’ll let you two boys catch up. Sherlock, no rough housing. We don’t want a repeat of last time.” 

And with that, she was gone and silence unfurled between them. Sherlock tentatively sat on the stool next to him and propped his cast up on the table. They both took up a careful study of the grain patterns on the table. 

One of them had to go first and John had never considered himself a coward. He cleared his throat and spoke to the table. “Last time?”

“I broke my ankle twice in the span of one summer. Or rebroke it, I suppose. Decided to climb a tree with the cast still on.” Sherlock frowned and picked at his cast.

“Oh.” That didn’t go particularly as he planned. He had hoped Sherlock would have a ridiculous tale to share. Sherlock’s frown deepened; a deep furrow formed in between his eyebrows.

“John, I would like to say that--That is. I think. You need to understand that. What I said.” He growled and slammed his hand on the table. “This is ridiculous. You know I didn’t mean to upset you.”

John nodded. “But you did.”

“But I was simply curious. I was trying to understand what your life is like. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to forgive you, idiot. I just said that you did upset me.” He shrugged.

“Oh. Well, I suppose that is alright then,” Sherlock said. “If it would make you feel better, you can ask me anything you like and I will answer it honestly.” He straightened his spine, preparing himself for the worst.

John weighed his options. He knew enough about Sherlock to press the right buttons. Part of him wanted to ask something hurtful, something that would make Sherlock’s shoulders curl inward. It was a part of him that belonged to the snake. It would be so easy to ask why Sherlock didn’t have any friends or why his parents, who were both lovely people, seemed to never acknowledge each other’s existence. The question sat poised on his tongue, but swallowed it down. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Sherlock made a face. “Honestly, John.”

“Yep.” He grinned, surprised that such a simple question would incite such a reaction. Maybe he’d try asking what Sherlock’s favourite colour was next.

“Fine.” He sighed as if it was the worst thing that could have ever been asked of him. “Something to do with the sciences, I think. Chemistry, perhaps.”

“I should have seen that coming.”

“What about you?”

“I was thinking about maybe going into the military.” John scratched at a water mark on the table and kept his eyes firmly down. He didn’t want to see what Sherlock thought of that. Despite his nonchalance, being a soldier was something he had dreamed about. It’d give him a chance to get away, far away, and do something actually worthwhile with his life, instead of spending every day just trying to get through it.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no?”

“You could get shot. Or blown up. Terrible idea.” 

John laughed. “That’s not going to happen. Besides, think about all the places I could see. And we could write to each other and I’d tell you things that I learned. Might actually be useful for once.” He nudged Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned at him. “John, you are always useful.”

“I am?” That didn’t seem possible. All he ever did was listen.

“Of course. Always.” Sherlock stared at him until John had to look away, his face red and skin tingling.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t talk about it again. Instead, they fell back into their routine. They didn’t venture far from Sherlock’s house, but it didn't matter as there was still plenty to do in the surrounding area. There was a small wooded area nearby and they spent several days looking for mushrooms and other poisonous plants. After a long argument, John convinced Sherlock that trying one, even if it was only a little bite, was probably a bad idea.

In the fall, Sherlock left for school, but only after John demanded that he write. Without Sherlock around to liven his days, life became a long grey blur. John wasn’t a bad student, but after the tumultuous lifestyle he had lived in the past year, he found himself counting down the days until he could leave school behind. Sherlock's emails were the only thing that marked one day from the next. There was only one computer that the boys all shared at the home and John impatiently waited his turn every night to check his email in the hopes that Sherlock had written something. The first few exchanges between them were awkward, as they learned how to talk to one another without being face to face. Soon, however, Sherlock took to sending him messages throughout the day. Often they contained no more than a sentence or two, and since John had to wait until the evening to read them, they also grew increasingly exasperated over time. He smiled when he read them and then carefully typed out a reply. The other boys took to mocking his eagerness. A few months ago, it would have resulted in a fight, but John ignored them, pretending not to care about their teasing.

Besides, John had the holidays to look forward to. Sherlock had promised that he would be coming home for Christmas. He prided himself on waiting until the day after Sherlock had returned home to drop by. After all, Sherlock’s parents would want to spend some time with their son, even if he could imagine the eyerolls that Sherlock hid under his fringe.

Sherlock had already fled the house by the time John got there the next morning. A quick search found him sitting out on the pier of the pond behind his house. It had been a mild winter, but John could smell that the weather would be turning soon. Before long, snow would coat the trees. Sherlock’s face was upturned, eyes closed. In the grey, wintry light, he looked inhuman, distant and lonely. He tugged his jacket closed and sat down next to Sherlock. Neither of them spoke, simply enjoying the presence of the other. Eventually, John snickered.

“Why haven’t you got your shoes on? You do know it’s December, right?” 

“I prefer to be barefoot.” Sherlock wiggled his toes to emphasize his point.

“I hope you prefer frostbite, ‘cause that is where you are headed.”

Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“And that’s why you keep me around.”

“Among other reasons.” Sherlock shifted his weight and his hand accidentally brushed against John’s, before coming to rest in his own lap once more. John’s hand tingled, but he blamed it on the cold. 

John’s tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. He licked his lips and cast about for something to say. Why had it become so difficult to talk to Sherlock in person? They talked all the time in their emails. “So, how was school?” He winced. What a stupid question. Sherlock hated school.

“Ugh. Dull. I didn’t think the average intelligence of the student body could drop any lower, but I was proven wrong. All anyone wants to discuss is who is snogging whom.” He spit snogging out as if it pained him to even use the word.

Something shifted funny in John at the thought of Sherlock kissing another person. “Have you?”

“What?”

“Kissed someone.”

Sherlock’s frowned and quickly shook his head, curls flopping forward to obscure his face. “No. Why would I?”

John shrugged. “Feels nice.” Or at least he was fairly certain it was supposed to. He kept the secret that he had never kissed another person locked inside his chest.

“Does it?” Sherlock swung a foot back and forth; his toes skimmed along the frigid pond water. 

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes on Sherlock’s toes and the delicate line of his ankle. Everything about Sherlock screamed fragile, light as a bird bone, and just as sad. In the early morning, John liked to watch the birds before anyone else was awake at the home. He huddled under his blanket, head just outside, and watched the world slowly come alive. Sherlock reminded him of those birds he spied every morning through his small bedroom window. One of those that sat motionless for hours on a branch, observing, waiting, only to take flight in a sudden burst of energy; there then suddenly gone in the foggy morning light. 

John clenched the rotted wood of the pier in his fist and leaned forward, gut twisting at the thought of Sherlock gone like a wisp of cloud, burnt away with the rising of the sun. When he was close enough to feel Sherlock’s body rocking with the motion of swinging his leg, he stopped. 

Sherlock stared at him, nose bunched up in thought. “Are you planning on kissing me?” Intrigue coloured his words, rather than repulsion, and John gathered his courage from that.

“Thought I might.” John swallowed. “That okay with you?”

Sherlock stopped swinging his foot. In the silence, the trees creaked and groaned around them. “Why?”

John shrugged. “Do you not want me to?”

“I’ve never had anyone want to,” Sherlock paused and tilted his head. “It might be an interesting experiment, though...”

John nodded and ignored the little flutter in his ribcage. “Yeah. So, I’m going to kiss you now. And I might put my hand on your leg, if that’s okay.” He was fairly certain he sounded like an idiot, but he had found in the time he had known Sherlock that it was important to always state what you were planning before trying to do anything that might require touching. He moved forward slowly, his hand gently coming to rest on Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock turned and tucked his bare foot under him, directing his full attention to John. “Are you going to use your tongue?”

John froze, eyes wide. “Do you-- I-- should I?”

“I don’t think so. We should start with a baseline. If we are going to conduct an actual experiment, it’s important to have a control.”

John forced his face to keep from grinning. “If it were an actual experiment, shouldn’t we both go around kissing a bunch of different people? Ya know, validate results. Test the hypothesis.” 

Sherlock frowned and shook his head after a moment of contemplation. “No, that sounds messy. And dull.”

“Right. So, for the purpose of our experiment, no tongue. Just lips. I can put my hand on your leg. You can put your hands wherever you like. Should we set a timer?”

“I didn’t think to bring one.” He sounded disappointed.

“And you call yourself a scientist.” Before he could chicken out, John quickly pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. It was a bit strange. Sherlock’s lips were softer than his own, fuller, and a bit slick from where he had been licking them. Sherlock stayed just as he had been before John leaned forward: back straight, eyes wide, hands at his side. It was a bit like kissing a statue. John pulled away and scrunched up his nose in embarrassment. “No good?”

“No, it-- it was good.”  A blush crept across the bridge of his nose. This close, John could see that Sherlock had a light dusting of freckles. “Perhaps we should try again?” He leaned forward at John’s nod, his fingers gently coming to rest on the lapels of John’s jacket. John let him lead this time, only gently pressing his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock pecked a series of kisses along John’s mouth until John began to smile into them. At this Sherlock hummed, tangled his fingers into John’s hair, and kissed him firmly.

 

* * *

 

The following summer, John left for the army. He convinced himself it was just like when Sherlock was away at school, but the distance grew greater between them. John diligently sent email after email, letting Sherlock know all about his training, how he looked forward to learning about being a medic. It was impossible to keep in touch all the time, not with him being so far away and Sherlock off doing his own studies. The only highlight was that ever so often John would get leave and meet Sherlock. Each time it was like meeting Sherlock anew. He committed to memory all the changes in Sherlock’s form: the way he now towered over John, the thinning of his face until his cheekbones stood out sharp and proud. He couldn’t help but worry that Sherlock was changing into something else entirely, something that he could no longer keep up with. Sherlock’s emails changed from delight at leaving behind the public school he hated so much to dark despair at finding that university was no different. John watched helplessly, thousands of miles away, and could only beg for him to stay safe. Sherlock stopped replying. The silence grew deeper between them, painted with the brush of distance and difference.

Two months before John’s twenty-seventh birthday, two bullets nearly claimed his life. Instead, they claimed his military career. All he could think of on the flight back to London was that Sherlock had been right.

 

* * *

The flat in London was nice, certainly better than a lot of places he’d lived before, but it was empty and unbearable. After living the past decade elbow to elbow with other people, he couldn’t bear the quiet. The sounds of London pounded on his window, but there was nothing that dispelled the loneliness.

He felt old, washed up and worthless. While others his age were out chasing women and having fun, he was hobbling around with a cane. He tried taking classes to fill up his time while he found something new to do with his life, but he was always acutely aware of how much older he was than the other students.

He had just returned from another frustrating night of picking at his food at the local pub and trying to figure out how the hell you talked to civilians, when someone knocked on his door. In the time he had been back in London, no one had visited him. It obviously had to be someone lost. He snatched up his cane and shuffled to the door, shouting at the person to hold on when they knocked again.

He wasn’t expecting Sherlock. The other man looked thin, far too thin, but healthy otherwise. He stared at him for a moment.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock said John's name like it was any other day, like little time had past since the last time they had spoke.

“Sherlock. How did you--”

“I heard you’d been invalided out.” 

“You heard?” John gritted his teeth.  

“Yes.” He peered over John’s shoulder. “May I come in?”

John moved away from the door, not bothering to see if Sherlock followed. He sat down hard on his bed and rubbed at his thigh. “What do you want?”

“I thought I’d see how you were.” 

“Fine. Just fine.” His jaw was beginning to hurt.

“Ah. I see the army did little to help with the temper.” Sherlock looked down at him, aloof and cool. It made John want to box his ears. 

“Sherlock, you don’t get to-- no. Just no. You were the one who decided to stop talking to me. Two years, Sherlock. Not a single word. The last I heard you were so depressed you could barely get out of bed and I had to hear that from your mum. You couldn’t even send me an email to let me know you were okay? Or to say that you weren’t interested in talking anymore?”

“There were other things on my mind at the time.” 

“Like?”

“Cocaine, mostly.” 

“Jesus Christ. Are you high right now? Is that what this is about?” John struggled to his feet. 

“I am clean. I have been for six months now.”

“I’ve been back for three.” Three months of aimless limping around London, of steadfastly not talking to his psychiatrist, of going through the motions sat heavy on his shoulders. 

Sherlock tugged on his scarf, fingers nervous and twitching. “I had to be sure that you wouldn’t balk at my presence. I understand that what I did was rude and cruel. I never claimed to be otherwise, but I have found your absence to be...intolerable.”

“It wasn’t easy for me, either.” He didn’t want to think about the long stretch of black that was his hospital stay. Every moment had been filled wondering if anyone gave a damn that he had lost everything. It had felt a little too much like losing his parents. The psychiatrist had told him it was a grieving process, just like losing someone close, only it was him that was lost this time. He didn't say it, but Sherlock read it as it flashed across his face. 

“I know.”

“Sherlock, I can’t be the reason why you stay clean.” He thumped his cane against the floor. “I’ve got my own problems.”

“This flat being one of them.”

John pointed a finger at him. “Shut it.”

“Of course.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Except it really is a terrible flat.”

“Bloody awful.” John laughed. Sherlock’s deep laugh soon followed, filling the flat with blessed sound.

“Might I offer a solution?”

“Go on, then.” He had a feeling Sherlock would be offering one regardless of his response.

“Come live with me.”

John froze. It was a ridiculous suggestion. Absolutely stupid. They hadn’t exchanged words in years and now Sherlock was swooping back into his life as if nothing happened. So why did he desperately want it?

“Ah. I suppose that was forward of me. Of course, you would want your own space. I’ll see myself out.”

“No, wait. Just if we do this, and I am only saying if, it would be trial run. We’d probably kill each other before the month was out.”

“An experiment, then.” Sherlock gazed at him, hope lining the wrinkles just starting to form around his eyes.

The word conjured the image of cramped alleyways and shared laughter, of being chased by dogs and overturning bins and tentative kisses. It sounded like home.

“Yeah, an experiment.”

  



End file.
